Screams of The Night
by Lyrics Amidala
Summary: Post-Skyfall. She has nightmares about the two of them, nightmares of the deaths (among other things) of the double-oh agent and his quartermaster. Of James Bond and Q.


**Disclaimer: I OWN THIS! Actually no, scratch that, I don't. Know why? Because my life sucks, and therefore anything I loved must be ripped away from me. I feel so melodramatic while saying that (giggles). So, I just want to forewarn you guys. Before watching Skyfall, I didn't know a lot about James Bond. I had watched a Pierce Brosnan film I don't know the name of (it was set somewhere with lots of snow), and then I watched Casino Royale, and that was about it. Then I watched Skyfall, and for the beginning, I though "Meh." But then Q came on looking all cute and dorky and sexy and awesome with his little nerdy/"brainy is the new sexy" (if anyone understood the Sherlock quote, I will be fiercely proud of them) glasses and cardigan, and I kind of fell in love with him. My knowledge of the 007 franchises is still incredibly limited, but I plan to rectify that. So, this sort of contains some 00Q, if you brought slash goggles and if you squint. It is never directly implied however, and I'm not even sure if it's there. It started out as an idea about an agent at MI6 who ships 00Q, and then evolved into this **_**thing. **_**I scare myself sometimes. And I think I'm incapable of writing fluff. Damn it! Whatever, maybe I'll write a little something. So, this does contain an OC as my central character, but doesn't really reveal a lot about her character. Also, I have no idea how she got into such a high position of power at so young an age, so I'll leave that for other writers. If anyone does want to do a spin-off about her, feel free, but PLEASE PM me first, just so I can know. Wow, this was a ridiculously long A/N. I'm sorry world. Read, review, enjoy, and please don't yell at me when I get stuff wrong. **

She doesn't know when the nightmares start. Maybe it was when she first ushered 007 into her office, and saw the look of surprise on his face when he saw a woman in her mid-twenties in such an office. In such a _position_ really. Maybe it was when she walked into Q-branch to say good morning to her best friend, and saw the easiness that flowed between Q and James Bond. Maybe that was when it started. She doesn't know. But she knows that she's just woken up in terror, screaming as she watches Bond and Q crumple to the ground as the bullets hit their heads.

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This night is different. This time, someone's getting tortured. She doesn't know whom. Maybe Q, who is her best friend, or maybe Bond, whom she quips with at an almost daily rate? She doesn't know. She hears screams, and hears guttural laughs, and she bolts upward, heart racing, throat raw from the shriek she just emitted.

"Just a dream," she tells herself. "Only a dream." That doesn't calm her down, though. Dreams can come true. Just ask Disney. So she remains terrified, and refuses to fall back asleep.

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It has become her pattern now. She fights sleep until she can no longer, and then, every time she wakes up from another nightmare, doesn't fall back asleep. It shows at the office. Dark bags are perpetually under her eyes, and she yawns constantly. Some of the older colleagues (well, all of her colleagues at the office are older than her, so just some of her colleagues) ask her what's wrong.

"Insomnia," she always replies, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"That's too bad," they say. "Try drinking herbal tea/reading a good book/listening to classical music/ reading some of the agent's briefs. That helps me sleep." She does that though, to keep herself awake. To keep her mind occupied. Because, for some inane reason, her sleep is plagued with constant nightmares of the double-oh agent and the Quartermaster dying, or dead, or tortured, or any worst case scenario. She doesn't know why. She just knows that she can't go to sleep.

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She lurches upward yelling herself hoarse nightly now, and so she's slipping. People can see that she rarely comes out of her office, that some of her briefs have grammatical errors. And she _hates_ grammatical errors. But she can't help it, this cycle of nightmares and screams and fear. But she falls asleep at her desk, and only bolts up with a high pitched, fear filled yelp when someone taps her shoulder, and she sees Bond staring at her with an eyebrow raised.

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She finally tells him about the nightmares. Not what they entail, she just tells him how bad they are. It's evident that he understands, to a certain extent. Of course he does. So many people had given him cause for nightmares. Their deaths, anyway. That Vesper girl, the late M, all of those other women he manages to find every time he goes on a mission. So he simply doesn't say anything, hands her a file, and leaves. But when she walks back to her flat, fighting the sting in her eyes, she sees him on the couch, lounging, drinking _her _Scotch.

"What are you doing here, 007?" She asks wearily, fishing out her phone to respond to a text from Q.

"I have bravely volunteered to be your lover in league against the subconscious mind," he said, raising his glass in mock salute. She rolls her eyes, but feels a tiny bit better.

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Of course, Q was texting her about how he's going on the field with Bond tomorrow morning. It was to ask if he could book an extra ticket to wherever the hell it is for him. So, of course, tonight features her worse nightmares. Q's being tortured, but _Bond_ is the one torturing him, listening to his cries with deaf ears, simply shooting more electricity into his body. And her eyes fly open as she thrashes around, before lunging upwards, still screaming bloody murder, voice full of fear. Someone rushes in, trying to stop her flying hands, as they could be a danger to her. A small part of her brain knows it's Bond, but now, she's still choking out whimpers and other cries, fighting off his hands desperately. Finally, he grabs her wrists, pins them together, and forces her to look at him. She can see her reflection in his eyes. She is pale, and her eyes wide, scared, and desperate, tears glistening in them. Her breaths are shallow, and her lips are pressed together against the onslaught of noise that threatens to escape from her mouth. Bond just looks at her evenly until she can calm herself at least a little bit. She's still trembling violently, but no longer shrieking like a madwoman. Bond finally lets go of her wrists, and she instantly wraps her arms around herself, just shivering. Bond simply drops himself in a chair beside her bed. She knows that he's staying there, ready to wake her up if she screams again.

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"Repeat… that… again," she says slowly through gritted teeth. M is staring at her askance as she gives the order to Bond.

"Q's been compromised," he repeats calmly. No. No no no _no no NO NO! _This could not be happening.

"Are you near his location?" She demands. "Bond, answer me!" She hears the slight hysteria in her voice, but she can't help it. This is like her dream.

"I'm in the same building, but I don't know how far away…" His voice dies as a scream echoes through his earpiece. She can hear it, and she knows it is Q. Somehow, she knows.

"Oh God." She feels like she's going to throw up. She can hear Bond running through the corridors, and she can still hear Q screaming. M is still staring at her, probably wondering whose bright idea it was to give her job to someone as young as she was. But she didn't care about that now.

"I'm right outside the door," Bond mutters. As if she didn't know. Q's screams are louder, and his agony can be heard plainly now. She's starting to hyperventilate.

"Go in there Bond," she orders. "Go in now!" She waits for 007 to start berating her for being so emotional about this, for him to tell her to stop acting like a child, but he does not. He must understand then, to a certain extent, the terror she feels on Q's behalf. She hears the door being kicked open, and hears the cries of pain stopping suddenly. And then, gunshots begin to sound. She paces anxiously, trying to calm herself, until a dead silence washes over the earpiece. "Bond!" She cries. "Bond, if you can hear this, answer me." Heavy breathing on the other end.

"They're dead." She breathes a sigh of relief at Bond's gravely voice.

"How's Q?" She demands. There's a sharp intake from Bond. "Bond?!"

"He's alive," the agent says grimly.

"That's it?"

"He's in bad shape," Bond responds. "They were injecting him with something, some sort of drug that causes intense pain."

"Jesus," M mutters, and she remembers that he's here.

"We'll send paramedics immediately," she says crisply. She turns to M. "Take over, I have things to take care of." She tosses her earpiece to M, and stalks out of the room. Immediately, she slumps against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. She's scared for Q, scared for Bond, scared for herself, because the nightmares tonight are going to be horrid.

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The nightmares were awful last night. Even more than the norm. So, she doesn't notice whom she almost rams to until she recognizes the hands that hold her upright.

"Are you all right?" 004 asks. She remembers him from her days as a field agent, when he was seventeen to her fourteen, the 004 to her 003. She remembers the time when the way his mop of dark brown hair would flop over his eyes, and the way his hands fitted over hers when he taught her how to shoot again. They were the best agents in their class, until she had skyrocketed past fieldwork into Q branch, and then on and on until she arrived at the place she is now. There was a time when 004 used to make her blush. Not anymore. Now, she has a country to run, agents to deal with, quartermasters to heal.

"Fine," she responds curtly.

"Are you sure, 003?" He never called her by her real name, just 003. Or Three. Or Triple, if he wanted to be affectionate. The same way she called him Four, or 004. She would call him Quarter, but that was her pet name for Q. Oh, Q…"I heard about the quartermaster."

"Thank you," she snips. "For reminding me of the day my best friend was tortured. I needed that."

"So you aren't all right," he says triumphantly. She sighs in annoyance.

"What does it matter to you?" She asks.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying, you look dead on your feet," he says. She scoffs.

"I don't think it would be wise to speak to your superior that way," she tells him, adding light stress to the word superior.

"Allow me to make it up to you," 004 says gallantly. "May I take you out to a lovely little Italian place tonight?"

"I have work to do, Four," she tells him, although an Italian dinner sounded lovely.

"I'm sure you can finish it in time," he presses on. "You always were the quickest and the brightest. The best of your class." She laughs at that; he certainly knows how to flatter her.

"Maybe I will."

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She does manage to finish on time, and they do go on that date. Several, in fact. So many times that he ends up living with her at her flat. She doesn't wake up screaming any more. She still wakes up in a cold sweat, but she doesn't thrash wildly like she used to, having her legs tangled in the sheets. Rather, she is curled in a little ball against his chest, as if her nightmares made her shrink into herself. But her subconscious has seemed to register the fact that there was someone else there, someone to comfort her every time she woke. She actually allowed herself to fall back asleep, and things that seemed horrid to her seem lovely. For example, Bond and Q. The way Q always leaned ever slightly against Bond whenever he was there was no longer a sign of the trauma he had experienced on the field, but rather a sign of the trust between the two men. Other signs of their trust is the way Bond's hand ghosts over Q's arm, or the way he leans over the quartermaster to look at something, so close it would be like a violation of his personal space. She knows that the nightmares won't stop all at once, but they are less frequent. Maybe one day, she'll finally be able to sleep through the night.


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